"Hold me down, and hold me close tonight."
Every once in a while, a truly distinct independent artist becomes subject to the hype machine that the music press usually reserves for the pablum that emanates from the major labels. While this can be a blessing for an indie artist in terms of exposure, it can also become a curse in the sense that the hype is often comprised of reductive comparisons to other artists and/or ill-fitting identifications with specific genres. In fact, if there is anything that distinguishes much of the music journalism and music promotion of the last decade or so from that of earlier eras, it is the widespread need to over-define and micro-categorize both artist and artwork alike. Anna Calvi is an apt example of this phenomenon, with soundbites from the likes of icons such as Brian Eno claiming Calvi to be "the best thing since Patti Smith" preceding her like a calling card or a scarlet letter, depending on one's tolerance for hype-induced adjectives and predicates. To be honest, I'm usually instantly turned off by such things, but on rare occasion, there is something about an artist's work that speaks through all the hype and over-exposure, in effect, demanding to be heard on its own terms. Anna Calvi's eponymous debut album speaks in this way loudly and eloquently. Co-produced with Rob Ellis, otherwise known as the drummer for P.J. Harvey, another artist whom the music press is eager to compare Calvi to, Anna Calvi is a lush, Goth-tinged set of torch songs that tap into the same romanticized backwoods-blues template that has been so good to Nick Cave over the years, but with some intriguing sonic wrinkles, such as Calvi's guitarwork, sounding a bit like Django Reinhardt-meets-Tom Verlaine as refracted through a David Lynch film. The album's lead track, "Rider to the Sea," is both a fine tribute to the kind of moody guitar-based soundscapes that Verlaine perfected on Warm and Cool and a clear indicator of Calvi's considerable artistic boldness, as it isn't everyday a debut album begins with what is, for the most part, an instrumental. Calvi's sultry vocals make their first real appearance on "No More Words," perhaps the most understated song on Anna Calvi and arguably the strongest. Here, Calvi creates a sixties pop vibe complete with soft, almost whispered vocals, which belies the song's dark, desolate heart. Another brilliant song is "The Devil," a haunting, soul-searching ballad that reaches for the same type of dust-blown twang as Paula Frazer's early work in Tarnation and features some lovely flamenco-influenced guitar work by Calvi. All hype aside, Calvi's debut is the kind of album to get lost in, lovingly constructed, impeccably recorded, and featuring some of the most vibrantly assured Goth-pop you're likely to hear.
